Extenuating Circumstances
by Violet Spark
Summary: CURRENTLY BEING REVAMPED! She's a reporter. He's a convict. There's someone out to kill the Man Who Survived... and they're the only ones who can stop him. But can they catch the killer without killing each other first? DHrR
1. Out of the Floo

**A/N: Why, hello, all! Yes, it's the beginning of the... erm... revision of the end? I don't think that quite works... but anyway, here's the first REVISED chapter of EC. I'll add a little something along these lines (hopefully a little more eloquent and less... me) at the top of all the revised chapters, and don't forget that I'll have a list of reposted chap.s up on my homepage! Also, for those of you who didn't review the first time around clears throat consider this another opportunity! I really do value your comments, and your reviews are the only payment I receive for all of my hard efforts.**

**A/N 2: Yes... I've just realized that the first few paragraphs are exactly what was there before... but there are changes! Promise! Future chapters will have many more of 'em, so keep an eye out!**

**Disclaimer: _Crap-proof umbrellas, ten Sickles apiece! That's right, crap-proof umbrellas--get 'em here!_ That invasion of winged pigs is quite the opportunity for an entreprenuer. : )**

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Chapter One: Out of the Floo...

**o:o:o**

_Hello, darkness, my old friend  
__I've come to talk with you again  
__Because a vision softly creeping  
__Left its seeds while I was sleeping_

—"Sound of Silence," Simon & Garfunkel

**o:o:o**

Hermione Granger dipped a quill into the inkwell one last time, finishing her report with a signature and a flourish. Sliding the quill behind her ear, she licked her lips, rereading the last paragraph.

_And so, in conclusion, another myth has been resolved. It is something that all people of magical ability should remember; just as the Muggles consider us a legend, so do we have legends of our own that are just as true, and as often disbelieved. While the legend of the Philosopher's Stone is indeed hard to swallow, it is as true as the streets of Diagon Alley, and the engraved gates of Gringotts Bank; and just as verifiable are the circumstances surrounding its obliteration, in which the Boy Who Lived played an instrumental role, despite his tender age and relative inexperience. But even more important than the veracity of this legend is the role that the Philosopher's Stone played in the moral shaping of the boy who helped in its destruction._

She nodded, satisfied, and smiled. A fitting end to the account; plus the ambiguity as to just _how_ it helped Harry's 'moral shaping' would keep her readers interested. It was a trick of the trade that Hermione had known long before she entered upon this job at the _Daily Prophet_—cliffhangers, when tastefully written and not overused, are a writer's best friend.

Rolling up the scroll carefully, she popped it into a protective sheathing and tied it to the foot of the owl who waited patiently before her. "Off you go, now, Aphria. Take that right to Harry."

The owl _hurrred_ her assent, and hopped awkwardly across Hermione's desk and towards the window sill. Throwing open the window, Hermione watched her owl flit off through Diagon Alley, and into Muggle London. She always made sure to get Harry's approval on one of her exposés before handing them in to her boss.

She turned her eyes skyward then, stifling a yawn. It was a beautiful night, clear and pleasantly warm, and the amiable noise rising from the streets of Diagon Alley to her third-story window told her that she wasn't the only one enjoying it. She smiled and recorded her hours on the editorial office's blackboard, which kept tally of useful things like overtime and unused holidays, before snuffing her oil lamp with a charm, tidying her desk, and grabbing her purse.

Unsurprisingly, the office was completely dark other than the small, flickering lamps by the doors. Hermione had become used to being the last to leave the office, and she didn't mind it at all; in fact, she rather enjoyed the solitude and quiet of those last few hours. Most of her work was done then.

Luna always poked fun at Hermione's tendency to overwork, but she never quite understood that it didn't stem from the journalist's indefatigable work ethic or her trademark perfectionism; Hermione simply _loved_ her work. Everything about the _Daily Prophet_ enchanted her—the smells of ink and fresh paper, the scratching sound of quills over parchment, the diurnal arguments over whose articles got onto the front page of which section—being able to use words like diurnal without being stared at! It was a haven for the _literati_, and Hermione felt more at home here than in the flat the two women shared.

Then again, Luna would point out, that's what she gets for renting a flat in a Muggle neighborhood. But Hermione had grown up around Muggles, and as much as she treasured the idiosyncrasies of the wizarding world, living among Muggles was like slipping into a pair of well-worn, comfortable trainers after a day in heels. She couldn't help but envy her neighbors sometimes, the relative simplicity of their lives and cultures. The Second War existed only in their minds as That Incident a few years back, that horrible spree of killings. Hermione wished she could forget it so readily.

She made her way through the third floor (Investigative Reporting and Gossip) and down the stairwell. The ground floor was empty save one guard, who was playing solitaire and listening to the Weird Sisters.

"Night, Mike," she said as she passed, offering him a weary smile. It _had_ been a long day—but this exposé was her best yet, and she would be waiting on pins and needles until Harry and Ms. Wattersley approved it.

"G'night, Ms. Granger," he called from his post. "Oh, wait—"

She backtracked a few steps and leaned on the high counter above the desk while he, strangely, pulled on a pair of gloves. He held up a letter for her to see, but pulled away when she tried to take it. "It's a Portkey," he explained. "An Auror just Flooed in a few minutes ago and asked that I give it to the first reporter I see. If I'd known you were here, I'd've taken it up..."

"That's all right. What's happened?" she asked.

"Murder in Wales," he said grimly, turning the letter back towards him so he could read it. " 'Please send first available reporter with camera and quill. The utmost caution and secrecy is necessary.' It's signed by the Head Auror."

"Kingsley," Hermione murmured, frowning. "Thanks, Mike... I'll head right down. It will take me there?"

"That's what the boy said. Be careful, now."

She smiled at him again, adrenaline banishing the fog of fatigue that had settled over her mind and body. "I will, Mike. See you tomorrow."

"Until then, darlin'." He grinned and handed her the letter. As soon as her fingers closed on the parchment, she felt that familiar magical fish-hook plant itself behind her navel and jerk her forward. She never had been able to go fishing with her father after her first experience with a Portkey... she could empathize a little too well with the poor little beasts. After a few seconds of blurred colors and screaming silence, she stumbled to a stop in the middle of an empty street.

It wasn't difficult to find the scene of the crime. In fact, she found it far more easily than she would have wished. For a moment she wondered whether she had been right to come—but the thought of this scoop was too much to bear. Ms. Wattersley would be _more_ than impressed!

She didn't have long to dwell on that, though. It was chaos—Muggles screaming, Hit Wizards performing the memory charm frantically, Ministry officials clumped together and either whispering or shouting and gesticulating wildly, and a horrible smell of smoke and smoldering _something_—Hermione pulled out her camera, mentally composing the introduction to the article as she snapped photographs. _The acrid scent of burned flesh hangs over the street in the isolated Welsh village as Hit Wizards modify memories left and right. The charred remains of a house stand testament to the atrocities committed there, a solemn reminder of the lives lost—_

She whirled, gasping, as someone tugged on her sleeve.

An attractive young man stood over her, his dark face twisted into a scowl. "What do you think you're doing, girl?" he demanded harshly. "This isn't a show."

Fumbling with the camera, she pulled out her identification badge. "Hermione Granger, investigative reporter for the _Daily Prophet_—somebody requested a—"

"You're the reporter, then?" he asked, eyeing her with a look of mingled disdain and speculation. "Come with me, then. You'll be debriefed."

He gave her no chance to argue, just wrapped one hand around her upper arm and pulled her toward the largest knot of Ministry officials. Hermione took advantage of the situation to snap a few shots of Muggles recovering from memory modification in front of the smoldering house.

"Shacklebolt, here's the reporter you sent for," her escort said, releasing her with a sudden movement that almost sent her careening into the Ministry officials. The burly Head Auror caught her by the shoulders and straightened her, glaring warningly at the younger Auror.

"All right, Zabini. Go send another owl to the _Prophet _so they don't send anyone else. We need to keep this under wraps, you got me, kid?"

"Yes, sir."

Hermione whipped her head around to look at her escort, dimly recognizing the handsome black Slytherin. He glared at her for a brief moment before walking away to carry out his superior's orders. She looked after him, scowling, and then turned her attention back to Shacklebolt, determinedly quashing school memories. "Kingsley," she said.

He turned from the squabbling Ministry officials and offered her a strained smile. "I'm glad it's you Hermione. Just a moment, and I'll—gentlemen, gentlemen, please. My Aurors have this entirely under control. If you'll excuse me, now, I have to debrief the reporter. Ms. Granger?" he said, motioning for her to go ahead of him.

"What's this all about, Kingsley?" she asked when they were out of range, pulling out a pad of yellow Muggle notepaper and her favorite quill. "The letter mentioned murder. What do you have so far?"

He sighed, mopping at his bare head with the cuff of one sleeve. "Muggle family of three—mother, father, and a two-year-old boy." Hermione wrenched her head up, horrified, and Kingsley just nodded. "The Muggle citizen problem is under control, and we've got our liaison working with the Muggle fire department, as you can see," he said, waving one broad hand at the fire engines. "We've also got some of our best Muggle contacts working with the local hospital and morgue to deal with the bodies, and another working with the newspaper and local government. The Muggles will learn there's been a fatal gas explosion—that's all."

Hermione took faithful notes, and then frowned up at her old comrade from the Order. "But if they were all Muggles involved, why is the Ministry here, and why call for an immediate reporter? For that matter—why are _you_ in charge?"

He grimaced and motioned for her to follow him. They stepped gingerly over temporary wards set up to keep curious Muggles out of the wreckage and into the littered yard. The grass was strangely crunchy underfoot; Hermione wished suddenly to feel something less gruesome beneath her heels. Swallowing her rising disgust, she stopped to take a picture of a charred teddy bear flopped against a piece of blackened roofing, and then hurried after the Auror.

She stopped, aghast, and whirled when she saw the body laying at his feet. Her back to the body, she leaned upon Kingsley's proffered arm, one hand over her mouth. A strong hand patted her back supportively, and when her nausea began to abate, she turned back to the scene, mentally distancing herself from it. "Who?" she asked shakily.

"We don't have a name, but we _do_ know that he's a wizard. The fire mutilated his face and destroyed his wand—all forms of identification have been wiped out, so until someone files a missing person report, we have nowhere to start. What I wanted you to see was this," he said, crouching.

Swallowing back the urge to retch, Hermione did likewise, breathing as little as possible. The stench of burned flesh was almost too much to bear.

With a whispered charm, the corpse's charred sleeve lifted; bits of it fell away as ash. Beneath it, a relatively unharmed arm was revealed.

Hermione cursed softly. "The Dark Mark."

"You got it."

"He's a Death Eater?"

Kingsley nodded.

"But—but," she stammered, standing. For all of her revulsion, she found that she couldn't look away from that decimated body. "I thought the Aurors caught them all, after Harry defeated Voldemort."

Kingsley flinched. "We got most of them," he said. "But there were a few—either smart enough or lucky enough—who escaped us. Maybe they'd just gotten in and we didn't have enough to convict them on, or maybe they'd just covered their tracks well."

"So there are Death Eaters on the loose and the Defense Department didn't feel like letting the wizarding populace know?" Hermione asked, her voice considerably colder as she waited, quill poised.

"Put that away, Hermione," he growled. "This is strictly off-record." He rubbed his bald head. "They're not enough of a threat to alert the masses. No, hear me out first. They're in hiding now. I don't know why they pulled a stunt like this, but they must know that after we've found the body of a Death Eater at the scene of the crime, they can't afford to resurface."

"But don't we _want_ them to surface?" Hermione asked slowly, chewing her lip pensively. "We couldn't very well find them otherwise, if what you've said is true."

He shook his head in exasperation. "Hermione, you don't _understand_. If we say that there are still Death Eaters on the loose, people will panic. Hysteria will ensue. And the Death Eaters will come out of hiding to take advantage of the chaos. After all, who would notice a few well-placed murders, a resurgence in the Dark ways, amidst all that pandemonium?" he asked. Hermione found that she had no answer to offer. "You're Muggleborn. I _know_ you've heard that old axiom about ignoring your enemies. Eventually they'll lose interest."

Hermione frowned. "Kingsley," she said lowly, her face very grave, "these aren't schoolyard bullies we're dealing with here. These are fanatics. Fanatics don't 'lose interest' so easily."

"Hermione," he said impatiently, lips pressed tight. "_I_ am in charge of this case, not you, and so help me Merlin, if I see _anything_ on the front page that I didn't sanction, I'll be paying your parents _and_ your employer a little visit—and probably your landlord too, for good measure!"

She gaped, infuriated, and the injustice of this. He was threatening to have her fired, evicted, and humiliated if she told the truth? What had ever happened to the _Prophet_'s motto, _tantum veritas_?

But Kingsley wasn't paying attention to Hermione anymore. "Zabini!" he called.

The young wizard came running over. "Yes, sir?"

"Tell Ms. Granger here exactly what she can and cannot print, will you? I have to go before there's another murder," he said darkly, motioning to where one of the Muggle liaisons was brandishing a fist at a member of the Wizengamot. He left without waiting for the other Auror's reply.

Zabini looked down at Hermione scornfully before waving her over to a quieter corner a few houses down and sat on the raised curb, hands buried in the thick, well-watered grass and legs extended onto the cement. In the house behind him, the curtains were pulled tight as if to close out the night's horrors. Hermione was seized by the sudden wistful wish that she could be at home—not her flat, with only Luna, Crookshanks, and a few wards between her and the world, but at her parents' house. Even though she knew intellectually that it was a fallacy of childhood, she couldn't help but think that she would be completely safe there.

She only shook herself out of the reverie when Zabini began to speak. Hurriedly she took down the details he gave her, warning her not to be too explicit when it came to names and places, and to leave the involved officials listed as anonymous. Then, as she stowed away her quill and pad of paper, he gave her a cold smile that made her frown.

"What?" she demanded, hugging her arms against the evening chill.

"I can't _believe_ you don't see it," he said, taking obvious delight in her ignorance.

"See what?" she asked guardedly, dropping her voice.

His smirk widened a little farther. "Struck me immediately. Of course, you're still looking a little green over that body..."

Hermione hastily pushed away the mental images accompanied by that comment and looked at him. "If you're done being an immature prick, Zabini," she said coldly, "please explain yourself."

"Off record," he drawled. "Don't you notice _anything_ about the neighborhood, Granger? Anything... familiar?"

She frowned and looked around. It did, actually, seem rather familiar, though she couldn't say why.

Zabini chuckled, a low sound that sent a chill crawling up her spine. She looked back down and met his mirthless black eyes, and saw a shadow of fear there, a fear that she recognized instantly—it was an emotion shared by many who had played an active role in the Second War, as Zabini, then an Auror-in-training, had. It was a fear of the past, a fear that would never completely die for any of them. She shuddered. He spoke lowly then. "Turn around."

"Wh—"

"Just _do _it, Fuzz," he said, sneering and using one of Malfoy's patented annoy-the-Mudblood nicknames.

Glaring, she nevertheless turned obligingly—and stopped, face bent into an expression of horror, unable to catch her breath. Not twenty feet away from them, set into a bed of brightly colored flowers, stood a sign. The yellow rays of the streetlamp fell across its facade, revealing the carved letters. _Godric's Hollow_.

Godric's Hollow. A gas explosion. A family...

And a little boy.

Like Harry.

"Oh, Merlin!"


	2. And Into the Fire

Notes:All right, here's the second revised chapter! For those of you new to EC, this was originally written before the release of HBP, so it's AU from that point on.

Disclaimer:It's all Jo's but the Gobjobbles. Those are, indeed, a product of my over-Snorkacked mind. Enjoy!

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Chapter Two: ...And Into the Fire (A Hermione Day)

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_Time here all but means nothing  
__Just shadows that move 'cross the walls_

—"Time," Sarah McLachlan

**o:o:o**

Hermione awoke, skin coated with a fine layer of cold sweat and pulse pounding in time with the driving bass that echoed through the flat's walls. She irritably pounded her fist into the wall, though she knew it would do little good. "Bloody gits," she hissed at the oblivious neighbors, rubbing sleep out of her sore eyes. "Not even seven o'clock..."

Kicking her legs out from under the blankets, she stretched and started towards the kitchen of the flat she shared with Luna. Coffee—she needed coffee. Her limbs dragged with weariness (it had been another late night), and whatever nightmares had haunted her during the night had left a sour taste in the back of her mouth. Thankfully, they had at least not left an imprint on her memory. She knew what they consisted of, anyway—they hadn't varied for years. Silky blond hair falling in a curtain around her, pain writhing like living snakes through her veins, and those red, red eyes. She shuddered and hugged herself as she padded across the kitchenette and opened the cupboard.

Before her fingers could even brush against her favorite mug, the cabinet began to speak to her in a rather strident facsimile of her roommate's voice. Hermione shrieked, startled, and hugged her mug to her, backing away. "Oh, Loony," she muttered mutinously. "I'll get you for that one, I will."

Grudgingly, Hermione cast a modifying charm at the cabinet, so that the message (which was half over before the rush of blood in her ears subsided enough to make hearing it possible) would start again. Giving it one last glare for good measure, she began to fix her morning cup.

"_Wotcher, 'Mione! Before you send me a hexed Howler, let me just say this—working until four-thirty on an article and then getting up at seven—EVERY DAY—is just not healthy. And I would know. Mediwitch here, remember? So I turned off your alarm and called you in sick."_

Hermione choked on her coffee and spluttered, spraying the cabinet and the counter beneath it. She glanced back at the clock and groaned; it was almost ten already. "Brill, Luna, thanks," she muttered caustically. Her friend's blithe (and slightly abrasive) voice continued to pour nonchalantly out of the enchanted cupboard.

"_And don't even think about sneaking out—I told your boss that you were taking a mental health day, and she agreed with me so much, that she promised (Sorcery Scout's oath, nonetheless) to have Prophet security escort you back home if she saw you on premises. See? Even that hard-nosed bint agrees with me! So. I'm going to drop your article and photos off on my way to St. Mungo's, where Ms. Wattersley will instantly be taken by your Herculean perfection and mind-boggling skill and place it on the front page, as it deserves."_ Hermione snorted as laughter crept into the recording of her friend's voice.

"_No worries, then—nothing work-related, either, or you'll be hearing it from me. And I may just have to recruit Ronald to help berate you (you know he'd be glad to help)—" _

"You're not fooling there."

"—_so be a good little girl and do as Nanny Loony says. Enjoy your day off. Oh, and I _know _there's a Red-nosed Gobjobble in that miniwave thingamajig, so be careful around it, all right? They're known to be quite bothersome if irritated. Just leave it out some sprouts and sour milk and it'll be happy. Well, ta then, I've got to go or I'll be late!"_

Hermione stared at the cabinet in disbelief, slowly shaking her head. The enchanted recording began again, and she closed it, cutting off the young mediwitch's orders. Leave it to Loony.

_Gobjobbles, indeed_, she scoffed. Still, she couldn't help but eye the microwave warily as she passed it. _I think I've been spending too much time with that girl. _She sighed and shifted her full cup gently between her hands; it was burning the skin on her palms. She had a day all to herself. On her own. By herself. All alone.

Crookshanks meowed up at her; his quashed face had a strangely worried air to it this morning, and Hermione only looked back down at him, a grin spreading slowly across her face.

Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

**o:o:o**

"Maybe this won't be so bad after all," she mocked herself irritably, tossing a copy of _Witch Weekly _down onto her lap. For the third time in exactly nine minutes and twenty-eight seconds, she glanced up at the two clocks by the wall. The first, a perfectly normal Muggle clock, read thirteen minutes of eleven. The second, a cousin to Molly Weasley's rather amazing timepiece, showed her that everyone on it had something to be doing—universally something in which an interruption would probably _not_ be welcome.

One hour, fourteen minutes, and fifty-three seconds had passed since she began her Hermione Day, as she had mentally begun to call it. Fifty-three minutes and nine seconds ago, she'd begun to realize that maybe a Hermione Day wouldn't be quite as fun-packed as she'd hoped. In fact, so far it had been rather boring.

She had had her ice cream for breakfast, but she and Luna had both been so busy lately that it had gone relatively untouched for weeks, and had a horrid case of freezer burn. Three bites into it, and she'd had to dump it, lamenting the starving orphans in Sudan and resolving to donate to a soup kitchen at some point in the near future.

Her breakfast plans quite literally down the drain, she had opted for a luxurious bath, a welcome change from her usual economical shower. Fifteen minutes later, she'd been waterlogged and pruny, and so thoroughly doused in the scent of white tea-infused body wash that Crookshanks sneezed whenever he came near her. _She_ thought it smelled nice—but the realization that she'd been sniffing her own arm at the apparent slight of a cat soon had her worrying more about her sanity than her scent. Instead of applying the usual quick straightening charm, she'd left her hair to dry naturally—which meant curls. Lots and lots of curls. She'd forgotten how much of a nuisance they were; she'd gladly resort to the glamour charm now, but if applied to dry hair, it tended to result in a poodlescent, umber afro, at least in her own experience. She'd opted for a utilitarian bun instead.

So—unfed and overly-perfumed, she now found herself lounging lackadaisically on the old, comfortable sofa that served as the divider between "dining room" (or table with four chairs) and "living room" (or coffee table, sofa, chair, and magicked hearth). Sunlight poured in through the generously-proportioned windows, but Hermione's mood was dark.

"If I only had something to _work_ on," she moaned at Crookshanks, who was curled up in a pool of sun a few meters away. He looked up at her complaint, regarded her steadily with large eyes, and then curled back up.

Scowling, Hermione blew an errant curl out of her face with an irritable huff. "Some help you are, you little beastie."

He did not deign to respond.

Hermione stuck her tongue out at him, caught herself, and groaned again. "Have I fallen so far?" she moaned melodramatically, falling back with the back of one hand pressed against her forehead. "Oh, woe is me. I have absolutely _nothing _to do, for my best friend's taken all of my notes with her (though at least she was thorough), the ice cream was spoiled, and so is my cat."

To this rant Crookshanks only contributed a purr, which Hermione couldn't help but think was rather mockingly sympathetic.

"Fine then," she snapped, sitting up. "If _you're_ so brilliant at wasting time, tell me: who should I go pester? You're _obviously_ not up to the task yourself."

For several long moments, she waited. For several long moments, he drowsed. She was halfway through a haughty little sound of victory when he stood, stretched, and walked over to the bookcase. With one large paw he batted at a thick tome with a rather unremarkable green cover. Hermione, nonplussed and vaguely discomfited by this show, stood and pulled out the book he'd chosen.

"_Defensive Stratagem for the Cornered_," she read. After a moment, she pursed her lips speculatively and then looked down at her cat. "You, beastie, are freakishly intelligent, d'you know that?"

He purred as she bent to scratch his ugly head, and rubbed the length of his body against her legs, his bottle-brush tail twining around her calf. After a moment she stepped away and traded the book for her hat and sweater.

"To the Floo then!" she said, approaching the magicked fireplace. She often thought of it as her pièce de résistance—after all, not everyone could rent the average flat and enchant a fully functional fireplace (connected to the Floo Network, no less) into it. Hermione nodded proudly at it, took up a pinch of Floo powder, and threw it down into the grate. "The Ministry of Magic!"

**o:o:o**

"Can I help you?" the secretary asked without looking up from her nails. Hermione recoiled from the woman automatically, but resolvedly pasted a smile back on her face and faced her. Just because everything about the woman reminded her of Rita Skeeter didn't mean she couldn't be a... a reasonable human being.

The woman snapped her gum.

_Right, Hermione, stop being such a prat._ She cleared her throat, and the woman looked back up, arching one eyebrow. A sneer planted itself across her middle-aged face, and Hermione could almost read her thoughts—what did this ratty little girl want, with her faded sweatshirt and that god-awful hat?

Stubbornly, Hermione straightened the skully, pulling it down further over her errant curls. "I'm Hermione Granger of the _Daily Prophet_," she said in her most dignified voice. "And I would like to know if the Minister has any spare time today."

The disdain dropped right off the woman's face. "Hermione Granger? Oh _Merlin!_" She began to fuss with her crispy hair, and a huge, sycophantic smile pasted itself across her face. "Blanche—Blanche Underwood—I'm your biggest fan, Ms. Granger!"

An expression of mingled horror and confusion passed over the young reporter's face as the Minister's secretary scurried out from behind her desk and took possession of her hand, pumping it vigorously. "Erm—nice to meet, you, Bl—"

"Those exposés about the War were _phenomenal_, but that piece this morning—on the Godric's Hollow slayings—oooh, it was _amazing!_" the woman crowed, beaming down at Hermione.

"Um—thank you," she managed, grimacing. Apparently Blanche took it as a smile, though, for she only squealed girlishly one last time, squeezed Hermione's hand to the point of pain, and then hurried back behind her desk.

"Today, you said?" Blanche flipped open a rather hefty organizer. "Let me check his schedule. _Ahem_. Free time, second of June."

Two slots began to glow, one of which seemed to have been earlier that morning.

"Well, lucky you! He's got an open slot at one. I'll go ask him, Ms. Granger."

As the woman disappeared into the Minister's office, Hermione collapsed into one of the supplied straight-backed chairs and looked around. The antechamber no longer resembled a tacky pub, as it had under Fudge, but a workplace—and, more importantly, a government building. The photos of Fudge shaking hands with reluctant celebrities had been replaced by paintings of former Ministry officials and other famous witches and wizards. Further down the wall, Hermione recognized a portrait of Phineas Nigellus, the most unpopular headmaster ever to grace the halls of Hogwarts, which she had previously seen in the house on Grimmauld Place.

"Hello, Phineas," she said.

"Oh, it's the Muggleborn." He sneered, but Hermione knew that he didn't detest her on principle any longer—after all, it was Hermione who thought to bring him along when they had to evacuate headquarters, that summer after sixth year. She still remembered the row with Harry—_he's our best link to Hogwarts, slimy git that he is!_ And so, even though the anticipated attack by Death Eaters never occurred, Phineas had ever since been much kinder to the Muggleborn witch; in any case, however tainted her blood was, she seemed to be the only one able to comprehend his eminence. "Here to visit your mongrel friend?"

"Be kind, Phineas," Hermione said sternly. She was about to continue when Blanche reappeared, grinning horribly.

"The Minister says he'll be more than happy to meet you at Fortescue's Café at one for a late lunch. Will that work for you, Ms. Granger?"

"Perfectly. Thank you... Blanche."

"You're very welcome, Ms. Granger! Before you leave—might I, perhaps, get your autograph?"

A little flushed and flustered but highly pleased, Hermione signed the parchment that Blanche pushed towards her, inwardly forgiving her for her resemblance to the insufferable Skeeter. With one last thank-you, Hermione left the office and headed back up to the ground floor, stopping once to chat with Tonks when they passed in the hall.

That wasn't to be her only brush with Aurors that day, it seems. No sooner had she entered the elevator, than a voice shouted, "Hold that lift!" She pressed the 'hold' button, and a moment later, Blaise Zabini stepped in beside her. "Granger," he said stiffly by way of a greeting.

"Zabini."

There was a short pause. "The article was good. Exactly what we asked of you."

"I live to serve," she replied venomously. A brief sideways glance showed Blaise's eyebrows shooting up. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, and cleared his throat.

Hermione, however, was in no mood to chat. _Withholding evidence—withholding the truth! I don't know what the world's coming to, when a newspaper can't print a true story that so deeply involves the wellbeing of its readers! _They reached the ground floor, and, her eyes flaring and jaw clenched, Hermione swept out of the elevator past Blaise, ignoring his farewell completely.

_Well, there's a good mood down the drain_, she thought bitterly as she walked the few blocks between the Ministry building and the Leaky Cauldron. _Ugh. Breathe, 'Mione, breathe. Don't let that serpent ruin your day. Breathe. See, look, sunshine. Pretty day. Everybody's happy. Be _happy_, damn you._

It took all six blocks, but when Hermione reached the Leaky Cauldron, it was with a smile on her face if not entirely in her heart. "Afternoon, Tom," she said as she passed the bar, behind which he was polishing glasses.

"Afternoon, Miss Hermione. Nice article, this morning."

She felt her good mood begin to return in small increments. "Thanks," she said before heading out back. She counted bricks, tapped the right one with her wand, and stepped out into the sun-flooded streets of Diagon Alley.

It seemed like every witch and wizard within a hundred kilometer radius of London had decided to go for a little shopping trip that morning. Hermione glanced around, and then down at her watch: just a few minutes past eleven. _So. What am I supposed to do for two hours? _

Unsurprisingly, Flourish and Blotts had the greatest draw on her; ten minutes after arriving in Diagon Alley, she was steadily working her way through the display cases brimming with new arrivals. Her fingers trailed lovingly over the embossed titles, the smooth leather, the old-fashioned bindings—she was an all-around bibliophile, of course, but there was something undeniably special about magical books. Drowning in the delicious scent of old vellum and parchment, she pulled a copy of the newest edition of _Hogwarts, A History _out to peruse it.

The books were crammed into the shelf so much that its neighbor fell into her hands along with the thick tome, a slim volume with a black cover and a spidery design on the front. Hermione frowned, flipping it over; there was no sign of a title on any side. "What's this, then?" she murmured to herself, and, setting _Hogwarts, A History_ aside, let it fall open into her hands.

The thick parchment pages fell back to reveal a heart-stopping, accurate portrait of an all-too familiar face. Silvery blond hair, left to grow long, framed a finely shaped face as pale and clear as alabaster. Dark gray eyes met her gaze, challenging and proud. The portrait lifted its chin to stare at her briefly, one eyebrow raised, and then looked away. Below it lay a name in tidy script.

_Draco A. F. V. Black_

_1980 –_

_Imprisoned in 1998_

_The only heir to magical powerhouse Lucius Augustus Malfoy, Malfoy the Younger is most infamous for providing a safe haven for his late father's compatriots during the beginning of the Second War, and for the murder of Charles Weasley, son of the current Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement._

It was only when she remembered to breathe that Hermione found herself able to close the volume again. The covers slammed shut in her hands, and it was forced rudely back into its spot.

Every muscle in her body was twinging with remembered pain; her breath came in ragged gasps, barely controlled. "Get a hold on yourself," she muttered under her breath, gritting her teeth and walking stiffly away from the bookcase, ignoring the urge to sprint out the door and the whole way back to her apartment. "It's just a _picture_."

_It's just a picture... just a picture. Lucius is dead. He's dead, 'Mione, and you know it—you killed him yourself. Stop being such a prat and get over it. What's done is done. It's just a picture._

Despite this stern self-lecture, she couldn't quite shake the feeling that, if she turned quick enough, she'd see the elder Malfoy sneering down at her, wand raised, cruel lips ready to pronounce the Cruciatus Curse. She shuddered again and hurried away from Flourish and Blotts, shouldering past protesting wizards she didn't recognize.

**o:o:o**

"Hello, Professor."

The middle-aged man lounging in a secluded corner of the café, legs crossed and eyes locked dreamily on the pretty day outside the window, looked up abruptly and dropped the menu that had been hiding his face. "Hermione! Old habits die hard, I see," he said with an irresistible smile. He stood to embrace her.

She hugged him gladly. "It's so good to see you again, Remus! It's been far too long."

"It has," he agreed, releasing her and pulling out her chair chivalrously. "You look great—your work agrees with you. Apropos, why aren't you at work?" he asked, giving her a mocking stern stare. For all of his 'coolness,' as Ron put it, he was still a teacher at heart. "Skiving off?"

Hermione laughed softly. "Actually, Luna seems to think I've been _over_working. She turned off my alarm and called me in on a mental health day." Her smile widened sympathetically at the sound of the Minister's baritone chuckle.

Soon the levity wore off, though, and he fixed her with a solemn gaze. "I get the feeling this isn't merely a visit between old friends. Am I right?" he asked quietly.

Hermione flushed; she scanned her menu for a few moments to give herself time to think up an appropriate response. "I know it's been forever since I've dropped by—"

"No—no apologies, now. You're a grown woman with your own life. I didn't expect you to spend all your time hanging around with an old man like me," Lupin said with that same paternal smile.

She smiled, slightly abashed. "Well, it's about the Godric's Hollow slayings."

"A fine article, if I may say so."

"Thanks. But—there's something about it that's bothering me. Actually, there are _several_ somethings about it that are bothering me," she said, pausing as a waiter appeared to take their orders. When he left, she continued. "I'm sure Kingsley has filled you in."

"He has."

"Then you'll have noticed the remarkable similarities between these killings and the attacks on Lily and James Potter," she said, not pulling the blow. She heard the Minister of Magic suck in his breath abruptly, surprised by her forthrightness. "Remus, there's no way that the similarities could be just a bunch of coincidences. _No way_. They're too alike in too many ways."

"I agree," Remus said carefully, "but I'm afraid I don't understand why you wanted to talk to me about it. Shouldn't you be discussing this with Kingsley? He _is_ in charge of the case, after all.

"He is, but he's also the one that threatened to have me practically drawn and quartered if I printed a single word that he hadn't sanctioned. He said it's a case of 'ignore the attacker, and they'll lose interest,' but I don't buy that. I knew I could get a straight answer out of you, and I know that you know I'm trustworthy. So. Why all the secrecy, Remus?" she asked shrewdly.

He was eyeing her with surprise. "Merlin. You _have_ grown up, haven't you?"

"I'm very much capable of thinking for myself, if that's what you mean," she said.

"Hermione, I'll give you the answers you want on one condition."

"And that is..."

"That I'm telling 'Mione, my old friend, student, and comrade-in-arms, and _not_ Miss Hermione Granger, investigative reporter for the _Daily Prophet_. Understand?" he asked. She offered her hand, and they shook on it briefly before he continued. "Kingsley, as you know, is a very old friend of mine, but I won't pretend that we work well together. He's too..."

"Secretive?" she offered.

"Yes. Secretive and defensive. This is completely between you and I—but I'm afraid that I can't entirely trust him," he admitted, hands spread wide. Hermione frowned, both at the comment and at the realization that Remus must have been holding this in for quite some time. He needed a confidant—and Hermione resolved to schedule these little luncheons more often from here on out.

"I agree with everything you've said," he continued. "It _is _suspicious, and I can't understand why Kingsley isn't doing more to investigate this. I've actually been thinking—" He stopped, as though afraid of the effect that his words might have. "I've been thinking of launching a covert investigation of my own. It's completely within my jurisdiction, and it's not without precedent. But what I need," he said, looking at her seriously, "is someone to chronicle the counter-investigation—every nicety, every detail, every move that every one of my agents makes."

Her eyes narrowed and brightened, and her heart beat just a shade faster. "Are you asking?"

"I am, if you'll do it. Like you said, I know that I can trust you without compunction. Will you be my chronicler? The pay's not much, but it won't require you to quit your job—and from what you said, it sounds like Wattersley wouldn't be completely averse to you taking a few days off now and then."

She nodded, scarcely able to believe that their interests coincided so neatly. "Of course I will. Who will I be working with?"

"Well, I already have half a dozen possible agents lined up, but I want to keep this small and manageable. At most, I will hire twelve. At most. But you'll all be partnered up, and you'll be obliged by magical contract to share everything you know with your partner, in the event that..." he seemed to lose the inability to speak.

"That one of us dies," she said. Her voice was tender, though, and she patted her old professor's hand bracingly; the war had hit her hard, but she was young enough to recover relatively fully. Not all of her comrades-in-arms had had it so easy.

"Yes," he said. "I would like each partnership to have someone relatively innocuous—that would be you, in this instance—and someone who the Death Eaters might have an interest in." He grimaced.

"Not Zabini," she said quickly.

"Unfortunately, it's worse. Mind, you can always back out—up to a certain point."

A muscle tautened in Hermione's stomach, and she shifted uncomfortably. "Who is it?"

"The resident of cell fifty-seven, Azkaban Prison."

The waiter appeared a moment later with their meals, and Remus staunchly refused to discuss her partner any further, no matter how much she pleaded. He resorted to pleasantries, and she, reluctantly followed suit. The meal was good, but her curiosity was so strong that she barely tasted a bite of it, and ended up leaving half of her grilled chicken salad untouched.

Finally, Remus pushed his chair back and stood, and Hermione did the same. "I'll have Fortescue put the meal on my tab—no, don't worry, I can certainly afford to pay for a little lunch at such a reasonably-priced place. Save your money. And I'll send you details on exactly how we will get your partner released." He stopped, looked down at her, and then gave her a hug. "I'm proud of you, 'Mione."

She watched him leave with mingled feelings of affection, ambivalence, and more than just a shade of burning curiosity.


	3. Prisoner Number 57

Notes: Okay... let's try this again, shall we? I'm rewriting this because I sort of wrote myself into a corner the last time around, and didn't have the time to wrap up all the storylines before the end, which has to occur at a certain time of the year. Mostly all I'll do this time around is switch the order up a bit and add some more detail.

Thanks to those of you who have reviewed, even if it was out of confusion: ) And special thanks to Kaydotsidot and FreakWave for their encouragement!

Disclaimer: All right, so my imagination might be a little on the twisted side... but I still could never think up Dementors. _:shudders:_

**

* * *

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**Chapter Two: Prisoner Number 57**

**o:o:o**

_The end—it was the end  
__The sirens were pulling him down  
__And his heart was cold, so very cold  
__You believe it might never beat._

—"You Turn Me Around," Aqualung

**o:o:o**

Life was dark in the fortress of Azkaban. It was dark, and it was cold, and it was hungry. But above all else, it was lonely.

Prisoner Number 57 chuckled hoarsely at the thought, tucking his arms inside his ragged shirt to gain the most from his own body heat. Lonely. He was surrounded by raving lunatics, and he was lonely. _Birds of a feather..._

He growled to himself, fingers finding another hole in the thin fabric, testament to the fact that he'd worn nothing but these clothes for four long years. He hadn't had a proper _bath_ in at least nine months, and the small, sane corner of his mind was disgusted by his own smell, his own appearance. But the rest of his consciousness just shrugged and trudged on, wondering why it should care. That part became larger with every passing week, and the prisoner shuddered to think that soon, it might overwhelm the last reserves of his sanity.

It didn't help that all of the cells around him were full of nutters, howling and screaming and clawing, singing nursery rhymes while they tore off shreds of their own flesh, weeping for reasons they couldn't comprehend—until, finally, they simply stopped eating, and their voices grew weaker and weaker...

The prisoner shuddered again, and began his daily routine, which consisted mostly of repeating a mantra to himself and sleeping as much as he could.

"My name is Draco Aurelius Faustus Valerius Malfoy. Today is the sixth of June, 2001. I am twenty-one years and one day old. I am innocent. My name is Draco Aurelius Faustus Valerius Malfoy. Today is the sixth of June..."

He passed a few hours in this manner, and at the end of them he felt calmer than he had in quite some time. The repetition of the mantra, which changed only in the date and his age, always soothed away the emotional flotsam and jetsam from the nightmares that tormented his psyche during the night. He had hit upon the practice a few weeks after entering the prison, when he recalled an article on how Black had kept his sanity. _Innocence is not a happy thought_, Potter had informed the reporter. _Therefore, the Dementors couldn't take it from him. It kept him sane._

And so Draco Malfoy found himself in Azkaban, clinging to the method that had saved his second cousin. Unfortunately, he, unlike Sirius Black, was not an unregistered Animagus. There was no chance of Draco slipping through those bars and swimming to shore.

He was stuck.

Just stuck.

And it was driving him _mad_.

"No," he growled, shaking his shaggy head violently. "My name is Draco Aurelius Faustus Valerius Malfoy, and today is the sixth of June, 2001. I am twenty one years and one day old. _I am innocent_."

_Innocent of what they accused you of_, whispered a sly voice in the back of his mind, a voice that did not belong to him. It was so familiar, so tantalizing... so provoking. But he couldn't remember. _But there are things you've done that they never discovered. Remember that Mudblood girl? Remember how she screamed? Remember how she pled and wept, and begged you on her knees to leave her alone? _

"My name," he began again, eyes closed, "is Draco Aurelius Faustus Valerius Malfoy, and—"

_Remember the day Dumbledore announced she'd committed suicide over the Christmas holiday?_

"—is the sixth of June, 2001," he repeated, his voice louder in an attempt to drown out his own conscience. "I am twenty one years and one—"

_What was her name again?_

"Eleanor... Eleanor Branstone."

_Ah. So you _do _remember_.

"_My name is_—"

_She would be eighteen now... if it weren't for you. You made her life a living hell. Never quite had that effect on Potter, did you? Daddy wasn't happy... and when Daddy wasn't happy, no one was. You did it for him, didn't you? Sent those Howlers—notes enchanted to disappear as soon as she'd read them—you made her feel worthless, hated... and mad._

"No," he whispered forcibly, fingers clenching into fists and eyes opening. "No."

_Worthless... hated... and mad. Tell me, Draco. Why do those sound so familiar?_

"It's not real," he consoled himself aloud.

_Worthless..._

That voice! It was so... so close... He glanced over his shoulder, breathing coming harder and faster. It seemed to him that a dim shape formed in the shadows, its edges blurred. Pale hair swept back over broad shoulders, robed in black, and piercing eyes so cold they made him shiver...

_You're worthless, Draco! You could not even be more than a thorn in the Golden Boy's side—so you murdered a child! Worthless... worthless, and hated..._

_You don't deserve the name Malfoy._

Prisoner Number 57 turned his head away, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth. "I. Don't. Want. It."

_What was that, boy? You don't want it? You're a disgrace—a complete disgrace! You don't deserve to share this name. Not at all._

"I DON'T WANT IT!" he screamed at the shadow-memory of his father. "I DON'T WANT IT! I DON'T WANT YOU! LEAVE ME ALONE!"

The prisoner in cell fifty-six went silent for a moment, listening, and then began to weep again. Her neighbor had leapt to his feet and was stumbling around his narrow cell, beating his bare, numb fists against the rough stone walls. "_I don't want it! I denounce it! I denounce you! I AM NO LONGER A MALFOY!_"

For once, that hissing, poisonous voice in the back of his mind was silent, and Draco's face split into a fierce grin. The muscles in his face stretched into the unusual position with some difficulty, making the expression more of a grimace—but Draco didn't care, not anymore. He'd won the battle. "My name is Draco Aurelius Faustus Valerius, and today is June the sixth!" he cried. "Draco Aurelius Faustus Valerius. _Draco Aurelius Faustus Valerius!_"

"Well, Draco Aurelius Faustus Valerius. May I come in?"

"No! Never again! Never again! I've won—I will not listen to you _ever_ _again_, you thrice-bedamned bastard! I am _innocent_! Innocence is not a happy thought. The Dementors can't take it from me. I am innocent, I am innocent—my name is Draco Aurelius Faustus Valerius... Black! _MY NAME IS DRACO BLACK!"_ he shouted with fierce grin.

**o:o:o**

"Headmaster..." Hermione put one hand on the old man's arm, looking up at him concernedly and then back at the gaunt man who stood, laughing uncontrollably, in the center of the tiny cell. "He isn't..."

Dumbledore glanced down at her briefly, eyes shining. "No, my dear girl. He's no madder than either of us. His psyche is simply strained after so many years of false imprisonment. I only hope it has not stretched quite to the breaking point yet, though his apparent belief that his father is with him is certainly worrisome."

Hermione wasn't concerned about Draco's hallucinations, though—she had stopped cold at the end of the previous sentence. "False imprisonment?" she asked, her voice dark.

The Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry smiled through the narrow slit in the door at the laughing young man; he was now pounding his arms against his chest to generate warmth. "Indeed, Miss Granger. False imprisonment. Draco declared his own innocence and then requested Veritaserum; it was denied to him." He pulled out a small bottle and a key. "I intend to give that to him now."

He unlocked the door, and Hermione grudgingly followed him, unwilling to get any closer to Malfoy than necessary. She gagged at the smell in the tiny chamber; were these places _never_ cleaned? For a moment she forgot the name of the man before her and simply pitied him as a human, forced to live in incogitable conditions. Then she remembered, and kept her wand within easy reach.

"Draco Black," the filthy young man was musing, wagging his head back and forth and laughing softly. "Draco Black."

There was no innocence in the sound, or in the smile on his face. He was too tainted for that. His hoarse laugh was bitter and harsh, if tinged with true pleasure; the expression on his face was closer to a smirk than a smile. He nodded his head once more and then, while swinging it back, seemed to notice his guests for the first time. For a long moment he stared at the pair, dark gray eyes unfocused.

"You." He said, narrowing his eyes at Dumbledore. His cold gaze raked the old man up and down, taking in the long, forget-me-not blue robes, the half-moon glasses, the prodigious beard. "I... know you. Dumbledore?" he asked, his voice unusually hesitant. Hermione frowned.

The old man simply smiled. "I am honored that you remember me," he said. "Mr. Malfoy, I was rather hoping—"

"No." Malfoy's jaw was clenched, his eyes hard. "Mr. Black. There's no brand on _this_ arm!" he said, holding up the limb as if to prove it, and then looked down at his hands, his voice softening. "Blood on these hands... I want to wash them. I'm a Malfoy no more. Mr. _Black_."

Dumbledore inclined his head towards Malfoy, as he would to any new acquaintance. "My apologies, Mr. Black," he corrected himself. "As I was saying: I was rather hoping that my colleague and I might ask you a few questions."

Malfoy's—Black's?—face contorted into a snarl. "Veritaserum! Give me the damned Veritaserum, Fudge!"

Hermione stepped forward as Malfoy stormed towards Dumbledore, but the headmaster extended one arm, sweeping her gently back into her previous position. "All is well, Miss Granger," he said softly. "It is merely a flashback... an unfortunate consequence of his stay here."

Malfoy raged for another several minutes about his innocence, shouting in Dumbledore's face about dragons and wands and a theft of some sort—Hermione was too busy taking down his words to try to decipher the half-crazed commentary. His eyes cleared eventually, though, and his snarl subsided into a desperate grimace as he caught at the headmaster's sleeve. "Give me Veritaserum, Dumbledore! I'll prove it! I swear I will!" He dropped the hem and grasped the headmaster's shoulders, his pale, bony hands trembling.

Hermione turned her face away, attempting to cope with the drastic changes in Malfoy's appearance while the headmaster calmed him down. His pale hair fell in a matted, gnarled shroud over his unbelievably thin shoulders, and his eyes were sunken and shadowed. A wrinkle had formed between his eyebrows at some point during the last four years, and there was something about his face that made her almost think he'd never smiled in his life. A scraggly brown beard had grown up and overrun the stubborn line of his jaw, and his clothes were ragged and thin. The emaciated state of his body didn't bear thinking about—she wasn't sure _her_ psyche could handle it!

"I know you will, my dear boy," Dumbledore said gently, and the panic began to seep from Malfoy's fogged gray eyes. "Here is the Veritaserum. Miss Granger, are you ready?"

"Yes, sir," she answered, her voice coming out too sharp and shrill in the unnerving quietude, broken only by the wails of other inmates. One was singing an out-of-tune lullaby. Hermione focused her thoughts back on her task and prepared to play stenographer again.

"Here, Mr. Black. Open your mouth." Malfoy—Black—_the prisoner_, Hermione thought, frowning—obeyed, and swallowed the three drops as soon as they touched his tongue. Stenographer and professor waited for a few moments as the prisoner shook his shaggy head and blinked, the blur of Veritaserum drifting over his consciousness. "We will begin," Dumbledore said quietly. "What is the name given to you at birth?"

"Draco Aurelius Faustus Valerius Malfoy."

"And how do you wish to be called?"

"Draco Black."

"Why?" Dumbledore asked.

"My cousin... Black. He was my second cousin. He was falsely imprisoned. I am falsely imprisoned." Those clouded gray eyes turned from Dumbledore to Hermione, who was too busy writing to notice. Abruptly his gaze reversed. "It's symbolic."

"What is today's date?"

"The sixth of June, 2001."

"And how long have you been in Azkaban?"

Draco paused, calculating days. "Three years, eleven months, one week, and four days."

"Are you responsible for the death of Charlie Weasley?" Hermione's heart constricted as she waited for Malfoy's answer—those few seconds between question and answer seemed to last days.

"No."

She exhaled gustily and wrote down his answer with a hand that only trembled a little.

"Are you, or were you ever, a Death Eater of Voldemort?"

"No."

"Have you, Draco Black," Dumbledore said, "completely and sincerely denounced your heritage as a Malfoy, and along with it all ties to the Death Eaters and the fallen Dark Lord?"

Malfoy blinked. Hermione hesitated, noted the tension in Dumbledore's frame and the slackness of the prisoner's face, then turned back to her notes, waiting. "Yes."

"Do you wish to leave Azkaban?"

"Yes!" No hesitation this time.

"Do you wish to correct the mistakes of your past?"

"I suppose." Hermione looked up to see an expression of ambivalence on the prisoner's face. _Maybe not a Death Eater, or a murderer_, she murmured to herself, her hard gaze resting on his countenance, _but he's still a Slytherin_.

"I am going to propose a plan of action now. If you accept this, you will sign the name you wish to be known by on the piece of parchment supplied by Miss Granger. If you do not, you will simply tell us so. Do you understand?"

"I do."

"Here is my proposition," Dumbledore said, motioning Hermione forward. Draco blankly took the quill she offered, not looking at the parchment she lay on the stone floor before him. "We fear that the Death Eaters may be rising to some semblance of power again. We need someone to go among them, find out information, and bring it back—we need a spy, someone whom these people will trust. If you agree to do this, you will swear allegiance to the Minister of Magic and you will be inducted into the Order of the Phoenix. You will be partnered with another spy of the Minister's choosing and all of your past wrongdoings will be forgiven. Do you accept these terms?"

Hermione, who had set down the paper and quill within Malfoy's reach, fingered her wand; if he did not agree, she was to Obliviate him quickly and completely. The mind of a madman was prone to holding onto things that were better forgotten, as Dumbledore had said, and they could take few chances.

Her wand wasn't needed; without speaking, Malfoy crouched, scribbled something on the paper, and rose again. He offered the parchment to the headmaster, who examined it and then smiled.

"_Ennervate_."

Malfoy shook the haze of Veritaserum from his head and looked up. "Is it... is it done, then?" he asked, tripping over the surprisingly sane words.

"Welcome to the Order of the Phoenix, Mr. Black," Dumbledore said simply, extending his hand.

**o:o:o**

Leaving Azkaban was like awakening from a dream of eternal winter and darkness to find the sun shining on one's face. Draco gripped the rail at the ferry's edge so tightly that he knew his knuckles must be showing white through his already pale skin, and closed his eyes. For the first time in almost four years, he felt wind on his face. It was salty and chill and the moisture in it was more than a little rancid, as the waters surrounding the fortress of Azkaban are wont to be, but it was wind. Air. Freedom. _I'm free_.

Behind him he could hear voices conversing quietly. One was a man's, mellow and calm, but touched by the rasp of age. His companion was a young woman; her contralto was hushed and colored with anxiety and something like repressed anger. Both were familiar.

Then he remembered—Dumbledore, offering him Veritaserum. There was a haze in which his memory was distorted and imprecise... and then a quill was in his hand. He was a member of something... the Order. The Order of the Phoenix. He was a Ministry spy.

As it came flooding back, he opened his eyes, blinking out at the horizon. His thoughts, no longer restrained by near-madness, drifted between the novelty of his freedom, the consequences of his (perhaps hasty) decision, and the voices at his back. Dumbledore... and _Granger_. His blood cooled, and one corner of his lips lifted into a sneer. Of _course_ she would be here. Hadn't he pinned her for a Ministry lackey right from the start?

The ferry docked all too soon, and the ferryman and prison guards—wizards, thank Merlin, and not Dementors—left the unlikely trio standing on the far shore, shaking off the gloom of Azkaban.

Draco turned to face the others as Dumbledore spoke. "This is where I leave you. I've far more business to finish up at school than is entirely humane, and you two need some time to be reacquainted. I thank you again, Miss Granger, and commend you. Give your regards to Miss Lovegood, would you?"

"Of course," she said, nodding. The fact that she was pointedly _not_ looking at Black made her acute awareness of his presence all the more perceptible.

"And you, Mr. Black," Dumbledore said. Draco raised his gaze from the erstwhile Gryffindor to look at the elderly wizard. "I wish you the best of luck, my boy, and hope that you will not be a stranger. Miss Granger will assume all responsibilities for you henceforward, so if you need any assistance, help her. I am sure she will not hesitate in her duties."

She smiled tautly.

"Well, then, I leave you to it." Without another word, Dumbledore vanished with a quiet _pop_, leaving Draco alone with the Mudblood.

He turned to her, but she resolutely ignored him, staring out over the gray sea. She had never been particularly beautiful at school, and the last four years had certainly not harbored any miracles. Her features were strong and elfin at the same time, and her hair, though sleekly straightened, still showed signs of its trademark frizz. Her frame was curved and thoroughly average in size, though she stood nearly an entire head shorter than him. He found himself strangely compelled by the sight of her, and was filled with disgust to find it was hard to look away. _You've gone too long without seeing a woman, mate, if you think _she's _attractive._

"Granger," he grated after a moment. She turned to look at him with a languid air of condescension which told him quite clearly that by-gones were not quite by-gones just yet. "What does he mean, we need to get reacquainted? Why are you 'responsible' for me?"

"I am responsible for you," she said, avoiding the first question, "because Dumbledore and the Minister said so."

"I don't need a damned babysitter."

Granger gave him a hard smile. "If you, still widely believed to be a Death Eater or at least Dark sympathizer, would like to go running about the wizarding world all alone, without someone _reputable_ there to vouch for you, be my guest. It certainly makes things easier for me." She looked at him for a long moment, waiting for a reply. The only answer she received was a grimace. "As I thought. Well, then—first thing, you need a very, very long shower."

He would have made a snide comment—or, if his wand hadn't been snapped, hexed her—but his own senses told him that she was right. He _desperately_ needed to bathe. And shave, for that matter.

Draco jumped back a step as something brushed his hand. A derisive little laugh caught his attention, and he looked down to see Granger standing much closer than she had been before, hand outstretched. "Side-Along Apparition, Malfoy," she cooed viciously, obviously mocking his edginess. "Promise it won't hurt."

He ground his teeth. "My name is Black."

She narrowed her eyes at him, but the expression was not malicious; rather, it was calculating, analytical—and surprisingly Slytherin for such a thorough _Gryffindor_. "Very well," she muttered, and grabbed his hand. The movement was quick, and he thought that the old axiom of _get it over fast_ must be something like what was going through her head at the moment their fingers intertwined. There was a pop, and the seashore vanished.

They were standing in a living room. The carpet beneath the thin soles of his dragon-hide boots was soft, and the wallpaper was tasteful, with slight metallic hints below the molding. Well-used, comfortable leather furniture filled the room, and there was a fireplace that was obviously outfitted for the Floo network. Whose home was this? Granger's? He doubted it. She had never been big on aesthetics—just the bare bones minimum.

To his surprise (and dismay) Granger moved away from him, heading for a staircase behind them. Draco made to follow her, panic seizing him—suddenly all this freedom seemed a lot to get used to, after so long, and he didn't want to face it without something familiar there, even if that something familiar was a certain know-it-all Mudblood.

"Granger," he called quickly.

She stopped on the third stair and looked at him expectantly, eyebrows raised.

"You never answered my other question. Why do we need to be 'reacquainted?'"

"Because," she said tersely. "We've been partnered."

He blinked. "Partnered?"

She let loose an exhausted sigh. "Yes, M—yes. Partnered. Remember that contract you signed?"

A look of disgust settled over his features. "We're—sweet Merlin, _why_?"

"Ask the Minister," she muttered. "Now, come on. _You're _going to bathe, and I'm going to think up ways to kill Remus Lupin with impunity."

He followed her to the base of the stairs. "The mongrel?" he asked with a sneer that unconsciously mirrored that of Phineas Nigellus, one of his distant relatives. "Any particular reason?"

She gritted her teeth. "He's the one who stuck us together."

"But the... _that beast_ is the Minister of Magic?"

"For two years now," she said testily, glaring at him.

"But—"

"Look, I'll fill you in on everything later, but you are really, _really_ smell." Before he could respond, she turned and climbed the rest of the stairs, leaving him standing at the bottom, scowling up.

"Bloody witch," he muttered, shaking his head.

He jumped when someone screamed shrilly behind him. A woman stood in the kitchen doorway, staring at him, aghast. After a moment of petrified terror, she threw down the mail she was holding and took up a metal poker from beside the fireplace, brandishing it clumsily like a foil.

"_Get out!_" she shrieked. "_Get out! Henry, there's an intruder! Get out of here, you!_"

A man with a neatly-trimmed gray beard came bursting in from another room, and Draco staggered backwards, tripping on a small side table and falling, taking the table (and the porcelain plate displayed upon it) with him. The man rushed at him, but at just that moment, Hermione came running downstairs.

"No, Dad, stop! Mum, it's all right, really! I didn't think you were home or I'd have warned you—" she said, hurrying over to Draco and helping him up. "He's a colleague of mine. Draco, these are my parents, Henry and Janet Granger. Mum, Dad, this is Draco... Black. I'm really sorry, but he's only just got in from an assignment in Africa, and I told him you wouldn't mind if we stopped off here so he could clean up a bit before we went back to London."

Draco wondered briefly when Hermione had come up with that story, but she didn't look at him after making sure that he was unharmed. Her eyes were fixed on her parents.

"Oh. Oh, dear," Mrs. Granger said, sitting down on the arm of the sofa and pressing one hand against her chest. "Please forgive me, Mr. Black—you just gave me such a scare!"

"It's—it's all right," he said uncertainly. Hermione, still not looking at him, gave a tight little nod that her parents missed.

"Are you all right, son?" Mr. Granger asked kindly.

"I'm fine." He looked again at Hermione for help, uncertain what to do. After all, these people were... Muggles. Draco had never had a conversation with a Muggle in his life. He wondered if they knew anything about the wizarding world, if he should pretend to be just another Muggle—no, what he _should_ do was run out of there as fast as possible. But that wasn't happening anytime soon, he realized as Hermione returned to his side, taking his arm in hers.

"C'mon, Draco, I've got the bath ready for you..." she muttered, escorting him upstairs.

"If you need some clean things, feel free to borrow a pair of trousers and a shirt," Mr. Granger offered.

"Uh—thanks," Draco said as Hermione hauled him up the stairs.

"Stupid bloody prat," she hissed as soon as they were out of her parents' hearing. "Why didn't you follow me?"

"I am not a dog, Granger, and you did not ask me to."

She rolled her eyes, and pulled him into the bathroom. "Clean up. You smell like—like—_eurgh_, there isn't even a name for it," she said, making a face and motioning towards the full bath. "There's soap and towels. I've got to go do some damage control."

With that, she left him standing in the middle of the Muggle bathroom. No sooner had she closed the door than he heard footsteps on the stairs and Mrs. Granger's voice.

"Is that the young man that Luna was telling us about?"

"_No_, Mum!" Hermione said, apparently horrified by the very thought. "Ugh! And why have you been talking to—"

Draco scowled and blocked out the rest of the conversation, stripping off his clothes and dropping into the bath. The water felt like heaven after so long, and he stayed in so long that Hermione actually knocked on the door once and asked if everything was all right.

"No, Granger, it's not. I'm incapable of taking a bath by myself. Bugger off, will you?"

"All right—but I'm warning you, Malfoy. You keep a civil tongue when you're around my parents, or I'll do you one worse."

"Black!" he hissed, even though he knew she couldn't hear him. "My name is _Black!"_


End file.
